Peace: thou hast told a tale, whose every word
Threatens eternal slaughter to thy soul.
------Heaven is angry, and, be thou resolved,
Thou art a man remark'd to taste of mischief:
Look for't; though it come late, it will come sure.
FORD.
The appearance of the refugees, with the fierce though unavailing
contest they had attempted with the pursuers on the night of the
outrage, had spread the alarm far and wide; and this was not
diminished by the daring assault on the prison, as it was called, the
real character of that enterprise not having yet generally
transpired. One consequence of the alarm was, to draw to the scene of
commotion the governor, or President as he was then called, of the
commonwealth, who happened in the neighbourhood upon some tour of
duty, and arrived after nightfall, so that his person was not
generally known before day. One of the first persons upon whom he
laid his eyes, after entering the hotel, was his old and
distinguished acquaintance Colonel Falconer, with whose unhappy loss
he was already acquainted, as well as with many incidents of the
trial. Upon saluting him by name, the Colonel became greatly
agitated, and besought him not to repeat the word, if he would not
have him murdered before his eyes; with other expressions indicative
of a disordered mind, which the dignitary attributed at once to his
melancholy bereavement. He then accompanied him to a private
apartment, where he attempted to soothe him by condoling with him on
his loss, but found him incapable of listening to argument or
entreaty. The death of his son did not seem to affect him so deeply
as the malice of the murderer, of whom he spoke with a bitterness and
vindictiveness of feeling that shocked his hearer. It has been seen
how his heart softened over this unhappy youth, when he met him at
the water-fall, and deemed that he owed a life to his virtue. The
death of his son had, however, converted his feelings into a new
channel; and he saw in the humanity that drove him from the Hollow,
only the evidence of a cold-blooded design to withdraw him from the
scene, that his son might perish unaided; and this design he
contrasted with his own friendly resolutions. In short, the demon of
revenge had entered his spirit, along with that of fear; for, it
seemed, the repeated discoveries of Oran Gilbert penetrating even to
the haunts of his foes, had infected him with terror on his own
account. The sight of the governor, in whose hands lay the power of
life and death, seemed to throw him into alarm, lest he had come with
the design of pardoning the murderer; and he lanched at once into a
strain of vehement complaint, in which he mingled denunciations
against the prisoner with personal calls upon the governor for
justice.
In the midst of this scene, which the magistrate strove in vain to
bring to an end, the door of the chamber was thrown open, and the
figure of Elsie Bell entered the apartment. She had risen from a bed
of sickness,--it might have been supposed from a bed of death, for
her appearance was more like that of a moving corse than a living
being: and as she tottered up to Colonel Falconer, who stood aghast
at the spectacle, her bloodless cheeks, livid lips, and eyes shining,
almost without speculation, through the gray locks that had escaped
from her head-dress, filled even the governor with awe.
"Where is Richard Falconer?" she cried, "I heard his voice but now;
and it called for justice!"
Her looks wandered from the governor, upon whom they were first
fixed, to the object of her inquiry; and it is impossible to describe
the expression of mingled triumph and horror with which she surveyed
him. She raised her shrivelled hands, and shaking them with a fierce
but palsied motion, cried,--
"Yes, Richard Falconer, you called for justice, and now you have it.
It has come, at last, in blood, and in blood richer than that of your
own bosom. The death-bed curse of a ruined woman will not be
forgotten,--it curses forever!"
"For God's sake, governor," cried Falconer, trembling from head to
foot, "leave me, or take the wretched creature away."
"Yes, leave us," said the widow: "let no one look upon him more, let
no one look upon him now. Away, if you have pity for him who has none
for himself."
The governor looked at Falconer, and perceiving that, although
incapable of utterance, he made earnest gestures to him to depart, he
left the chamber without speaking a word, but with a look indicating
amazement and suspicion. He was no sooner gone than Elsie, stepping
up to Falconer, laid her hand on his arm, now seemingly as palsied as
her own, and said, with accents that sounded in his ear like the cry
of a raven,--
"You asked for justice--ay, I heard the words with my own ears! you
asked for blood,--the blood of him who has shed that of your son! You
called for justice--it was for justice on your own head! Richard
Falconer," she continued, "well may you tremble; the curse of Jessie
Gilbert is now upon your soul, and it will be on it for ever."
"Woman," said Falconer, endeavouring to shake her off, but in vain,
"you will drive me distracted."
"I will do you no such mercy," said Elsie: "Hearken--the last words
of Jessie Gilbert were a curse,--the curse of a broken-hearted woman
upon her betrayer: she died cursing you, and now the curse you feel,
without knowing half its dreadfulness. Richard Falconer, you ask for
the blood of Henry Falconer's murderer. Miserable man!" she added,
relaxing her grasp, and clasping her hands with horror, "it is the
blood of your own son,--the blood of the child of Jessie Gilbert!"
"Hah!" said Falconer,--but said no more. He gazed in the face of the
speaker, and read a dreadful confirmation of her words, while she
continued to utter, as in a kind of insane exultation,
"Is not this revenge for Jessie Gilbert? The brother kills the
brother, and the father kills the son!--ay, as he before killed the
mother! Now, Richard Falconer, repent and die--the victim is avenged!
It is true!"
"It is false! false as hell!" said Falconer, recovering speech; "or
what, oh God of heaven! what am I!"
"The avenger of your own black and heartless villany," said the
woman. "Hearken, Richard Falconer, and you shall know all. When Oran
Gilbert knew the shame of his sister, he swore its miserable fruit
should never see the light; and I knew he would slay it, even out of
hatred of the father. That night! that night! it was a night of
horror. Jessie Gilbert lay dead, with a babe wailing on her bosom;
and the mother, the broken-hearted step-mother gave to my hands her
own untimely and still-born offspring--the brothers raved at the
door, calling for the child of shame. I had mercy--mercy on your
child,--not because it was yours, but because it was the babe of
Jessie. I laid it in the arms of the step-mother, and it lived. She
kept the secret, and the father of her you betrayed kept it also,
though he sent it afar from his sight. Thus was it saved--thus was
the child of sorrow preserved, that he might imbrue his hands in the
blood of his brother, and then perish at the call of his father!"
"Wretch!" said Falconer, sinking on a seat, "and this dreadful secret
you kept, that _I_ might be made the most miserable of men? And you
incited on the unhappy Hyland to the murder of his brother?"
"I did what I could to save him,--not for your sake, though, Richard
Falconer, but for the love of Jessie. I warned the boy of his
danger--nay, I would have told him of his birth, but that I knew it
would kill him; and I loved him for his goodness. Why should I have
filled him with shame, staining him who was innocent of his father's
crimes, with the disgrace of his birth?"
"Elsie Bell," said Falconer rising and advancing towards her, "I am a
villain.--My poor Harriet! my poor Harriet!" he added, and as the
widow looked into his face, she was amazed to see it streaming with
tears. "But for her, but for _her_," he added, "but for her and my
wretched Henry--but for my children, Elsie, I might, I _would_ have
done justice to Jessie's memory. Oh God! had I but known of this
thing before! But why, _now_, should it be known? You revenge the
murdered Jessie not on me, Elsie, but on my poor Harriet. The stain
you feared to cast on the name of Hyland, you fling on the forehead
of my daughter. Elsie Bell, Elsie Bell," he exclaimed, in unspeakable
agitation, while drops of sweat rolled from his temples and mingled
with his tears, "if I tell you what you know not, though it show me
to have done worse by Jessie Gilbert than you dream, it will destroy
my remaining child. And why should I destroy her? Why fling her
before the world as a creature to be scorned, for the sake of a
wretched fratricide? I will not do it,--I will say no more--what
_have_ I said? When they are dead,--when all are dead, then let me
lay bare my baseness, and think of the memory of Jessie. But this
child,--this wretched, this blood-stained Hyland,--I will save his
life,--the governor shall grant me his pardon; it cannot be that he
will refuse me--But I will never see him, no, never--Hah! hear! what
is this? They are bringing him forth! Hark! they are shouting aloud
for his condemnation!--Oh heaven support me! To this I--I have
brought him!"
But we have not the courage to pursue further the agonies of the
wretched father, whom a sudden commotion in the street, with loud
cries of "To the court! to the court! the jury have made a verdict!"
one of twenty false rumours to which expectation gave birth,--threw
into new transports of anguish. At last, moved by an irresistible
impulse, he started up and ran into the streets, through which he
made his way to the prison.
In the meanwhile, Hyland strode (for though securely fettered, he was
no longer chained to the floor,) to and fro in his cell, a changed,
we might almost say, a happy, man. The sight of his pistols in the
court had introduced a new set of associations, from which he
perceived clearly, that, although he had so long esteemed himself the
author of Falconer's death, that young man had, in truth, fallen by
some other hand. The story told by Sterling of the exchange of
pistols between him and the prisoner, was, as Hyland had pronounced
it, a sheer fabrication; although he was unable to devise any reason
Sterling could have for swearing falsely; his original testimony
having made it clear, that he was not actuated by motives of malice.
He remembered that he had raised a weapon against his rival, which,
as others were discharged at the same moment, he did not dream had
failed to go off; although he now recalled to mind that the same
one--he had taken it from the same side of the saddle--had flashed in
his hands, when aimed at the head of Sterling. Remembering these
circumstances in connexion with Dancy's declaration that he had
restored the pistol, entirely empty, to the holsters, he saw at once,
however others failed to see it, that Providence had interposed to
save him from the crime of bloodshed, and that he was therefore, save
in intent, wholly innocent. This persuasion was enough to banish his
despair, which was founded chiefly on remorse; and perhaps, in great
measure, also, his apprehensions; although in a cooler moment, he
would have perceived upon how weak a foundation he built his hope of
escape, so long as the falsehood of Sterling was not exposed.
Twenty times he endeavoured to throw himself upon his knees, to thank
Heaven for its signal interposition in his favour; but his devotions
were checked by the tumult of his mind, which increased at last into
such distraction, that although he received a visit from his jailer,
whose errand had no unimportant bearing upon his interests, he failed
to take any advantage of Lingo's good will, or even to understand the
purport of his communications. The fact was, the note of hand which
he had drawn from Affidavy's pocket, besides affording confirmatory
evidence of that worthy individual's connexion with the attempted
rescue, had made a strong impression upon Lingo's cupidity; and his
object in the visit was nothing less than to intimate _his_
willingness to serve the prisoner in the same way, and on much more
reasonable terms. But he found the prisoner in no condition to treat
with him on such a delicate subject; and after unmasking his battery,
and uttering several broad hints in regard to his friendly
intentions, he was forced to give over in despair, resolving,
however, to open negotiations at a more favourable moment.
In the meanwhile, Hyland still paced to and fro through his dungeon,
till his feeble limbs refused to support him longer. He then threw
himself upon his couch, and becoming more collected, pondered
bitterly over his situation. He heard the rush of the people towards
the court-house, which was at no great distance, as well as their
shouts 'that the jury had descended!' and he felt at once, with a
thrill of fear, that he still lay hovering on the brink of a
precipice. He started up in an agony of mind not to be controlled,
and throwing himself upon his knees, began to invoke heaven with wild
exclamations; when the door of his cell was thrown open, a bright
lamp flashed in his face, and looking up, his eye fell upon that of
Colonel Falconer, who entered the room, followed by the tottering
Elsie. The door was closed behind them, and Falconer stood rooted to
the floor, surveying his wretched offspring, who seemed petrified at
his appearance, while Elsie stepping up to him, held the lamp to his
face, and bade the father look upon the features of his son.
"It is Jessie's face over again," she muttered, "and as pale, as
ghastly, and as distracted as when she cursed her betrayer. She
cursed him, but do not _you_, Hyland--the curse has fallen upon all.
Now, Richard Falconer, behold your son, and remember Jessie Gilbert!"
"His son!" cried Hyland, starting to his feet; "_his_ son! Are you
mad? Oh, Elsie, I am half distracted myself. Why do you bring that
man to me?"
"Because," said Elsie; "he claims to see his offspring."
"His offspring! Vain old woman!"
"Would that you were not," said Colonel Falconer, with clasped hands.
"I am now punished enough. Alas, wretched boy, you have killed your
father's son. Hearken to this woman, and then add to the crime that
already stains you, a malediction upon your parent."
"It is true, Hyland, it is true," said Elsie. "As there is a heaven
above you, you look upon your own father, and you have killed your
half-brother."
"I have killed nobody," said the youth, impetuously; "and if you
would have me still innocent, drive that man away. His son! sooner
make me the way-side beggar's--nay, make me believe myself a murderer
rather. His son!"
"Ay," said Colonel Falconer, with deep emotion, "the sinful son of a
sinful parent."
"Stand away! approach me not!" said Hyland, for Falconer was
approaching. "Your misfortune has turned your brain. Touch me not,
for I remember my sister!"
"Your mother, boy, your mother!" said Elsie.
"Be it my mother, if you will: what then have I but more cause to
curse the author of her shame?"
"The author of her death, not shame," said Falconer, with a smothered
voice. "Murderer of your brother, even for your sake I will take that
veil of disgrace from your mother's memory that must be hung round
the brows of my daughter. Do not curse me, my son--Elsie Bell, I
deceived you all, and it was the deceit that killed my poor Jessie.
This boy was born in wedlock,--the child of the abandoned and
broken-hearted, yet wedded, wife of her destroyer."
"Your wife! gracious heaven, your wife!" said Elsie, on whom these
words produced as strong an effect as upon the bewildered Hyland.
"Now, Richard Falconer, if you have spoken the truth, you are indeed
a blacker villain than ever men believed you."
"I am," said Falconer; "for with the lie I killed my wife and laid
her in a grave of dishonour. You were made to believe it was but a
mock ceremony that united us: it was a legal and honourable tie, and
broken only by the death of Jessie. And for what purpose? You know,
Elsie Bell, you know very well, yes, surely you know," he added, with
much agitation, and as if afraid to speak further. But Elsie sternly
affirming her ignorance of any cause he had for destroying the peace
and good name of her whom he acknowledged his lawful wife, and Hyland
now regarding him with a look of mingled fear and entreaty, he
essayed to speak; and again the sweat-drops, oozing from his temples,
betrayed the anguish and shame of mind with which he exposed an act
of unexampled duplicity and baseness. His confession was indeed one
which no light remorse could have wrung from his spirit; but it was
made, and made without concealment or attempted extenuation, although
it undoubtedly revealed a strong if not just reason for his failure
to rescue from shame the memory of his betrayed wife. He had begun
the world as a needy adventurer; but was early patronized by a
gentleman of great wealth, with whose daughter, an only child, he
soon presumed to fall deeply in love; the consequence of which was
the withdrawal of his patron's favour, and immediate expulsion from
his house. It appeared, that he had not failed to make some
impression upon the lady's heart; but she was a spoiled child and
coquette, and he left her with but little hope of ever deriving any
advantage from her tenderness. He betook himself to the army, was
transferred, in course of time, to the frontiers, and in less than
two years after his departure, found himself recovering from the
wounds he had received at the Moravian town, under the roof of
Gilbert's Folly. The youth and beauty of Jessie, his gratitude for
her kindness, and still more, perhaps, for her affection, which the
simple-hearted maiden gave him almost at first sight, and had not the
power to conceal, touched his imagination, if not his feelings; and
in a moment of excitement, and folly, he proffered her his hand, and
was married. The marriage was secret--it might be added, accidental;
for the freedom of manners, at that day, and in that country,
allowing such license, he often, as he recovered, found himself
galloping with the merry maiden on visits among the settlements a
dozen or more miles distant; and it was upon one of these occasions
that he gave his love and faith together to the thoughtless maiden.
The knot was, however, no sooner tied, than he was seized with fears
and regrets: he had already received overtures towards a
reconciliation by his old patron, and without well conceiving in what
manner he could profit by a return of friendship in such quarter, he
persuaded himself, and his bride also, that his interest demanded
some temporary concealment of their union. To this Jessie was easily
induced to accede; for having no distrust in her lover, she saw in
such concealment only an additional frolic, such as she esteemed her
marriage to be. She feared no censure from her parent, who had indeed
long since signified the pleasure with which he would receive so
gallant a gentleman for his son-in-law; and she looked forward with
merry anticipation to the hour when she should present herself to him
as a bride of a month's standing. She consented therefore, not merely
with readiness, but alacrity, to preserve the wedding a strict
secret; and in that fatal consent paved the way for her own ruin and
untimely end. We will speak the remainder of the mournful story in a
word. The overtures from the patron were renewed, and were
accompanied by the smiles of his daughter. Falconer looked upon
Jessie with anger, perhaps with abhorrence,--she stood in the way of
his fortune. The old love smiled again, and forgetting that now the
smile came too late, he yielded to the intoxication of his original
passion, threw himself at her feet, and became, even with her
father's consent, an accepted lover. The state of his mind can be now
better imagined than described; love, avarice, and ambition together,
as well as a consciousness that he had involved himself beyond all
retreat, urged him to persevere in a suit both dishonourable and
criminal; and Jessie was now thought of only to be hated. Months
passed by, and the jest of the frolic was over; yet the marriage was
not divulged; the young bride begged to disclose the secret, and
every entreaty filled him with new alarm and anger; until the
accidental death of the regimental chaplain by whom they had been
united, and the previous decease of the only witnesses to the
ceremony, put him upon a scheme for relieving himself from his bonds
worthy rather of a fiend than a human being. His witnesses were two
soldiers of his company, whom he had bribed to silence so liberally,
that they quarrelled together in their cups, and fought, and that
with such fury, that one was killed on the spot, and the other died
before he could be brought to a trial. The chaplain was drowned five
months after in attempting to cross a flooded river. There remained
therefore no witness of the union, and the only testimony remaining,
to wit, the certificate signed by the unfortunate chaplain, was
already in Falconer's hands. Opportunity--the devil that seduces
beyond all other fiends--destroyed every vestige of honour and
humanity in his bosom; he fled from his betrayed wife, leaving her to
believe that the ceremony of marriage between them had been only a
brutal mockery, contrived by a villain for her ruin. He left her to
believe this, to madden, and to die; and before she had drawn her
last sigh,--nay, upon the morning of that dreadful midnight that saw
her expire,--he had yielded to the fate he had encouraged, and taken
a second wife to his bosom.
"I lived, I prospered," he cried, when he had brought his dark
confession to a close; "and two fair infants sat upon my knee; but
their looks were curses to me--their birth was _infamous_; and I
myself, though men knew it not, was in the eye of God and the law, a
_felon_!--Now, Hyland, son of the wronged Jessie, I have defended
your mother's memory; but I am not less a villain. Expose me to the
world, curse me, for I deserve it--yes!" he added, with wildness, and
even falling upon his knees before the horror-struck son,--"expose me
and curse me, but have pity upon my child,--have mercy upon your
sister,--the sister of the brother you slew,--my poor, wretched,
dishonoured Harriet."
"God forgive you, sir," said Hyland, with tears. "Leave me--I cannot
call you _father_: but I will not disgrace your daughter. No, I will
not--but my mother----And she _was_ my mother then?--my mother's name
must rest no longer in infamy. Go, sir; I forgive you--that is, I
will not upbraid you; but I cannot, I cannot call you father. I am
innocent of Henry's--of my brother's death----Yes, I will call him
brother, for surely _he_ never wronged my poor mother. Take this much
comfort--_my_ hand never fired the pistol that killed him; and,
whether I live or die, it will soon be seen that I am innocent of his
blood."
"God grant it," said Colonel Falconer, but with an accent showing how
vaguely the thought of Henry now sat on his bosom. "God grant
it--but--hark! what is that? They cry again! It is the descent of the
jury! Oh Heaven, I am punished indeed for that act of baseness!
Farewell, my son: I do not ask you for forgiveness--but touch my
hand, grasp my hand but once"----
"I cannot," said Hyland, recoiling with such horror, that the unhappy
father bowed his head with shame. He then snatched up the light,
unconscious of what he did, and moved towards the door, as if to
depart; but a louder cry from the street striking his ear, he again
turned round, and looked Hyland in the face.
"They are calling for your blood," he said, "but they do not know you
killed your brother!--What! not touch my hand? Well, it is but
justice.--I will not trouble you more."
With these words, he turned to depart, still holding the lamp; but
had scarce moved his foot, before there was heard, at a little
distance without, the sound, as it seemed, of a rifle, or other small
arms.
"Oh Heaven! my father!" cried Hyland, starting up, with a voice that
thrilled Elsie to the brain,--"I have killed my father!"
The lamp fell from Colonel Falconer's hands, and all was in darkness.
As Hyland rushed to where he had stood, his foot struck against a
prostrate body; and reaching down, he found his hand slipping in a
puddle of warm blood.
"Elsie! Elsie!" cried the distracted youth, "a light for God's sake!
It was meant for _me_, but it has struck my father! Why did I forget?
Oh, I thought not of my folly.--Help me, Elsie--he groans."
"Enough,--let me lie where I am," said Falconer, with a voice almost
inaudible. "There is retribution for all."
"Call the jailer!--Quick, jailer, quick!" cried Hyland, as the door
opened, disclosing the broad and wondering visage of Hanschen: "help
me to place him upon the bed; and then, oh for God's sake, quick for
a surgeon!"
But Hanschen answered only by slapping to the door, without uttering
a word; and making his way as fast as he could towards the cell of
Sterling, in which was, at that moment, presented a scene of not less
fearful character than that which had passed before Hyland's eyes.